


Saintly Motorcyclists

by voleuse



Series: Those Human Seraphim [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-03
Updated: 2004-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-04 11:59:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Giles tells a story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saintly Motorcyclists

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Chosen. Title adapted from Allen Ginsberg's _Howl_.

"So this was the old stomping ground, _a la_ Giles?"

The bar is dark, although it's probably still bright afternoon outside, they're sitting at a table in the corner, and Giles is telling stories of his ill-used youth.

"Yes." Giles sets down his pint of ale and scans the room, focusing on a bare corner for a moment. "Every once in a while, I would come and play the guitar."

"So rock star Giles _isn't_ a myth." Xander takes a sip of his own drink and cringes. It's warmer than he'd like. "Interesting. Did you have groupies?"

"Not in the traditional sense, no," Giles laughs, but there's an edge to it that reminds Xander of...not Giles.

Xander gazes at the empty corner, imagining young Giles, hands stroking the guitar's strings, sneering like musicians back in those days sneered. He thinks.

"This wasn't really a place you would find girls prone to, er, swooning."

"You sure?" Xander remembers an old photo he found once, in the library files. "You were quite the looker in your day." He gulps. "I mean..."

Giles chuckles. "Right. And thank you."

"No problemo." Xander takes a gulp of his beer, winces at the taste. "I'm secure in my masculinity."

"Of course." Giles hides a grin, barely, behind his own mug.

Xander wonders if he can get a _real_ beer from the bar, cranes his neck to see over Giles' shoulder. The bartender seems to have disappeared, and then Xander is distracted by a glint of gold. Giles is wearing that earring again, the one Anya used to rave about before--

"So," Xander says, punctuating it with the clink of his glass against the table. "If there weren't screaming fangirls dying to writhe over you, what were there?"

"Motorcyclists, mostly." Giles sets his mug down as well. "Sometimes large, covered in tattoos. They were quite appreciative, actually."

"But not so much with the writhing." Xander giggles at the mental image he gets from that, young Giles, panicking as he's overrun by Hell's Angels (but not literally). He picks up his mug again, starts to drink.

Giles raises an eyebrow. "Occasionally. Although I usually ended up doing the writhing."

Xander chokes on his beer.

"There was one man in particular--quite swarthy, but not as large as his companions--who attended my performances regularly," Giles continues, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Xander's hearing is starting to fade in and out, because he's too distracted by the gay porn that's starting to run in his head.

"...he bent me over a table--that one over there, in fact..."

He wonders where the bartender went, and whether he was there the night Giles got bent over a table.

"...think Ethan was watching us, but then again, there were several people still in the bar when he..."

Giles' accent is slipping again, and he sounds younger now. Rougher.

"...don't think if I asked what his name was, but the tattoos on his hands..."

Xander has never been harder in his life.

"...but I could show you, if you'd like."

Xander snaps back to attention. "What?"

It looks like Giles is staring down at the table, but Xander realizes Giles is actually watching him. Watching as his hips thrust upward, searching for friction, and Xander realizes he was thisclose to touching himself in a public place, in front of a man who's known him for almost a decade.

Xander closes his eyes, manages to still his body against his seat. "Show me what?" he repeats, desperately trying to sound less like he's still in high school.

It's a losing battle, he realizes, because when Giles' hand snakes into his lap, he yelps like he's just been hit in the head with a dodgeball.

"You're picturing it in your mind." Giles' voice is a silky whisper, now, and Xander's hips go on autopilot again, bucking against Giles' palm. "My face pressed against a tabletop, my wrists pinned down by Ethan's hands. Getting fucked from behind, and I screamed for the joy of it."

Xander whimpers.

Giles undoes the fastenings of Xander's jeans, slips his hand inside the denim. His hands are rough, almost too, but Xander just pumps against him more quickly.

"I could show you," Giles says. "I could show you what he did."

"Oh, god," and then Xander comes with a moan.

Giles withdraws his hand, pulls a handkerchief from his pocket with the other. Wipes off his hand, the cuff of his jacket. Xander feels boneless, and his hands shake as he tidies himself with paper napkins. He gets up to toss them in the wastebasket, behind the bar.

Giles is waiting when Xander returns to the table. His legs are spread, and a hand stirs idly on the crotch of his pants.

"Hey, Giles," Xander manages to say.

Giles, one-handed, unbuckles his belt, unzips his slacks.

"Giles?"

"Kneel." Giles' tone is stern, almost angry.

Xander kneels.

"Closer," Giles urges, his hand stroking his cock, the other twining itself in Xander's hair as he scoots forward. "There."

Xander fights the urge to giggle. "Now what?"

Giles' hand slides down, strokes Xander's neck, and then Xander bows his head and tries to remember all those articles he read those magazines Anya always had lying around.

It figures, he thinks, that the first day he proclaims he's secure in his masculinity, he ends up giving someone a blowjob.

He's not going to complain, though, because this is actually oddly hot, listening to Giles pant, hearing him strangle moans in his throat.

Then a door slams, somewhere in the back, and Xander freezes.

"The bartender left." Giles strokes the back of his neck. "They close for a short time, in the afternoon."

Xander continues, bobs his head up and down, arhythmically.

Giles keeps talking, though his voice is sounding strained. "He's an old friend, knew me back then. He was there the first time that I--"

Xander tries using his teeth, delicately, and grins when Giles pauses in his story to spout a couple of obscenities.

"The first time, right after I had played, Ethan and that man pulled me into the corner. One of them had his tongue down my throat, and the other, _fuck_, the other bit my shoulder."

Xander reaches up, cradles Giles' balls, picks up the pace.

"Ethan took my belt off, tied my wrists, and, _oh, god_, the other man pressed me down as he pulled my pants over my hips, and, _ah_\--"

Xander tries not to choke as Giles comes, swallows it all and feels proud of himself.

Giles slumps back in the chair, and Xander takes a moment to marvel at the sight.

Relaxed Giles.

"Wow," is all he says, before gulping down the last of his beer, and never mind the taste. "So, you said the bar is closed."

Giles squints at him. "Until this evening, yes."

Xander leans over, pulls Giles' belt off. Loops it around his wrists, experimentally. Smiles. "You said you could show me."

Giles grins.


End file.
